Fractured Minds
by Boospartan
Summary: Officially, the Office of Naval Intelligence has retired Spartan-III's deemed "unfit" for service. Unofficially, ONI Section Zero meticulously selected former members of Gamma Company, and charged them with a new directive. Entering a new, nefarious post-war galaxy, Spartan Gold Team faces down the worst threats ONI can dredge up, and in turn comes to face their own humanity...


One Day

If there was one thing Spartan G003 hated more than anything, it had to be speaking. He knew it was his duty to protect humanity, but did that mean actually _conversing_ with these people? He ever so slowly craned his armored head towards this person, grasping the rain-drenched branch above his helmet. For some reason, he felt ONI decided that the Spartans of Gamma Company were to have minimal contact with other members of the UNSC armed forces, even other Spartans. Whatever that particular reason was, he most certainly was glad for it. In all respects, he _despised_ other people. He felt his face contort into a rather depressing scowl and stared into the azure-tinted visor of this so called Orbital Drop Shock Trooper. "We're wasting time, let's continue on to rally point alpha."

He felt the need to scratch his throat after such unnecessary banter, realized he quite obviously could not do that, and brushed past the trooper with annoyance. The constant downpour broke through the thick canopy above G003, and streaks of lightning tore across the ugly achromatic sky, which only added to the fact he preferred isolation. There were a total of six personnel in this particular fireteam, and to Spartan G003's vexation, not a single one beside himself were Spartans. He, of course, was the point man in this _exceptional_ team, he wouldn't have it any other way. After all, who could trust an _ODST_ with their life? He certainly, absolutely would not and in fact would rather do everything himself and carry the burden of the entire mission sooner than trust his hide some half-assed attempts at asymmetrical warfare. And, without the Spartan augmentations and powered assault armor, the troopers struggled to navigate the viscous, knee high slog of a jungle floor courtesy of the brutal torrent impeding their progress. Not to mention the abundant foliage and the fact they were moving up a steep incline. All problems for the ODST's to attempt to handle and before long Spartan G003 found himself standing atop the precipitous hill, watching the mud-splattered marines rather pathetic attempt up. And they weren't even half way up the damn thing. In a less... disciplined mind, he supposed one might come the conclusion to berate the troopers for their inferior attempts and, quite possibly, find a brief moment of humor out of it all. But, of course, Spartan G003 was above such petty trivialities. Right?

The Spartan simply spun on his heels, oblivious to the struggling marines and with great reluctance keyed his team com channel and grunted, "Spartan G003 continuing ahead, rendezvous in six-hundred meters."

Without so much as looking back, the Spartan continued along at a brisk pace, always keeping his weapon ready to snap up and engage at a moments notice. His long, powerful strides made deep impressions into the muk beneath him, splashing muddy water around him. For him, this terrain barely even registered as an obstacle, barely passing his enclosed ankles. Not allowing himself to fall into a tunnel vision state through the jungle, he quickly noticed the ghostly motion tracker popped up on his HUD. The damn thing registered contacts all over the place it seemed, which could be expected of an area where there were literally thousands of things moving all around you, living or not. But, naturally one couldn't simply rely on technology which under circumstance could be fooled. It was simply a tool to him, as were the troopers behind him. A means of completing an objective, nothing more, nothing less. Still, tools of course had their benefits, if used in the correct fashion. A lesson one Lieutenant Commander Ambrose had instilled in him long ago. And, every once in a while, these instruments could surprise you, possibly not even in a negative way. A blip on his tracker revealed one Corporal Steele further along than the rest of her comrades, in fact a mere ten meters immediately to his flank. Strangely curious, the Spartan watched the trooper struggle to his side and manage to gasp out a few words, "I think I'll rendezvous now, if that's alright with you."

The feminine voice managed to surprise, if only a little and he managed a snappy reply, "As an NCO, perhaps you should assist your marines, corporal. I'll manage on my own," and attempted to continue forward before hearing her voice again.

"I don't get it Spartan, you brushed me aside earlier and I'm not quite clear on where you're coming from."

He realized this is why some tools should not be cherished for brief moments of usefulness. Usually, you shouldn't get your hopes up they'd perform at optimal capacity at all times. Many times rather than not, they'd let you down. Spartan G003 not so much as attempted to look at the corporal. "I am not here to indulge to pointless conversation. Trooper, you have an objective to accomplish, as do I. Form your marines up," he pushed on forwards assuming his ready stance, "or not, frankly I don't care."

He remembered yet again why he avoided contact with non-Spartans; their emotions hamper optimum efficiency for mission accomplishment. And as a Spartan, that was all that really mattered. His comm unit clicked on again, and before he could retort he heard the female's voice hiss, "I had a feeling you'd be this way, _Spartan_."

There was a term, long ago used in boot camp by Lieutenant Commander Ambrose, that spread among the recruits. He could recall that specific day, after a grueling physical training session courtesy of SCPO Franklin Mendez; Ambrose gathered all of the trainees together for the day's debriefing. Normally, these talks consisted of either berating his fellow recruits about their poor performance or, more favorably, about a more satisfactory outcome. Of course those were few and far between, but coincidentally this happened to be the time when the LCDR commented about the dangers of relying solely on tools and technology. He could, with perfect clarity, remember, huddled next to a few hundred other sweaty children, that very speech, and the first time he heard the term "Spartan Time." The absolute clearness of mind during a stressful situation, when your body clicks into the next level, when everything seems to slow down. Of course, this term took on new life after undergoing the arduous augmentation process, when quite literally everything around him slowed to crawl, and he alone shaped what occurred around him. The true "Spartan Time". But, as he later learned the hard way, when all else fails, trust only your fellow Spartans, and trust your gut. As he froze in place upon hearing her _real_ voice, his gut, his being told him there was something _dead wrong._

His overly sensitive ears heard the rapport of sloshing mud and snapping twigs and branches. The all too familiar grinding of body armor against the butt of a firearm. The deliberate and fluid movement of a cohesive squad of competent troops. The sound of more than a dozen weapons brought to bear, a target within their sights. The unmistakable realization that Spartan G003 was completely surrounded. It occurred to him only now that the events up to this point, were upon closer inspection, never quite fit. Everything from the actual objective, to unit makeup; why separate the Spartan into a separate fireteam with ODST's? The rather obvious conclusion came upon him like a knee to the gut. These marines were, in fact, not ODST's and not even marines at all. An honest to god snag finally happened. "Whats wrong Spartan, you seem a little shaken up."

The ODST impostor Steele now stood among a ring of similarly armed and armored hostiles, all of them with their various assault weapons and sub-machine guns trained directly on the olive-green giant. All of them assumed competent firing positions hunkered in with the foliage around them, roughed putting about fifty meters between themselves and the super-soldier. A few of the lagging fake troopers assumed positions around their ring leader. G003 snorted and realized the entire thing was an act from start to finish, even their little meager attempt at scaling the previous incline. Another thing he missed, as he bit his lips with anticipation. He slowly clenched his gauntlet tight around the pistol grip of the rifle and felt his legs gradually loose the tenseness upon realization of the ambush. Seventeen, maybe eighteen armed hostiles, all with the element of surprise, he wondered if they really felt they had him dead to rights. Anyone else, maybe, but they sorely overestimated their own chances. That would be the last mistake they'd ever make again.

"Alright Spartan, slowly lay your weapon to the ground an-"

Before she could finish, the Spartan violently sprang to life, using his planted right boot to spring forwards with unnatural velocity. Steele registered the half ton mass of man and titanium alloy, albeit a second too late. Before her smg managed a single shot off, Spartan G003 smashed into the unfortunate woman, armor-clad shoulder first. He could hear the satisfying gurgle to snap her sentence short, and the music of snapped bones underneath his charge. As Steele flew back through the air, the false troopers on either side of him now attempted to retaliate. As adrenaline kicked in and his augmented sense of awareness boosted into overdrive, the humans looked to him as if they were attempting to navigate a zero-g environment, their movements many times far too slow. His advantage seized, he flowed into his next move without missing a beat, swinging his carbine like a makeshift club at one unfortunate individual's head. The rifle actually caved the black helmet in and shattered the visor, and with satisfaction saw the man's face contort into one of agony. G003 then swept the adjacent target's legs with an impossibly swift side kick, hearing the fool scream as his right femur snapped like a moldy plank. Before all three enemies could hit the jungle floor, his internal told him that first engagement took roughly one point six seconds. _Too slow_.

The super-soldier saw the remaining hostiles tense up, and finally the first shots were fired his way. With the surge of chemicals and hormones pumping through him, G003 thought he could almost see each bullet's trajectory slicing through raindrops, racing towards their intended target. The closest false-trooper's shots were too close to evade, and G003 didn't even attempt to as the rounds impacted and harmlessly deflected of his suit's shield. The Spartan sprang towards the enemy, his barrier flashing bright gold in response to the trio of bullets that impacted him, snapped up his weapon and fired. The target collapsed as a burst of 7.62x51mm armor-piercing bullets impacted his head, tore through the protective helmet, and splattered crimson brain tissue and bit of bone out the exit wound. The other hostiles attempted to retain their numerical advantage and attempt to box him in again, the weapons spitting out bursts of suppressing fire as they did so. Unfortunately for them, Spartan G003 was far too elusive, and many times more accurate with his fire. He, of course, didn't have to worry about striking friendlies and they did, and to a Spartan, that was one hell of an advantage. G003 let loose, weaving through the dense vegetation and around colossal trees, picking off the false-troopers one by one, even after their vain attempts to encircle him and regain fire superiority. The Spartan managed a sly smirk cross his lips as a duo of the impostors attempted to retreat, firing off panicked and inaccurate bursts from their submachine guns. He wondered, if only for a fraction of a second, if they were nervous for some reason. Their behavior seemed to suggest so, but they were the ones ambushing him, right?

G003 simply avoided their poorly aimed shots, brought his carbine to bear, the weapon's reticule popped up on his HUD, painting his targets with the friendly green coloration. Wondering why his VISR hadn't adjusted to the threat yet, the Spartan fired twin bursts, felling each enemy with precision. Their bodies hadn't smacked the ground, before G003 spun on his heels and engaged three more contacts to his immediate flank. Mentally chastising himself for being sloppy, the Spartan felt the false-troopers spray his location with dozens of rounds. Most missing their mark, his shield indicator only fell to seventy percent at most throughout this entire engagement, this time being no different. _Acceptable,_ he thought, before downing two more of the hostiles from carbine fire. The MA5K clicked, indicating it was empty, and the last enemy unloaded what remained of his submachine gun magazine at the Spartan. Again, too slow and inaccurate, the super-soldier swiftly slung the rifle and grabbed _his_ submachine gun, his being the suppressed M7S variant. G003, in one fluid movement, flicked the safety off and spat out a quick burst of 5x23mm at the man, riddling him with accurate fire. The false-trooper pirouetted and collapsed, his weapon splattering into the mud.

Then, almost as quick as it started, the gunfire ceased entirely, and once more the sound of the jungle was the only thing he could hear. Sometime during the fight, the downpour had let up finally, and only a slight drizzle was evident. Here and there he could make out the fruits of his labor scattered about, crumpled bodies surrounded by pools of diluted crimson blood and murky rainwater. The animalistic haze that had settled over his consciousness began to wane ever so slightly, as did the effects of all the adrenaline and chemicals in his system. He breathed out a heavy sigh, as if he held his breath over the span of the twenty seven seconds it took to eliminate all of the threats. Immediate threats eliminated and the area secure, the Spartan remembered a little detail from the beginning of the fight, and briskly marched over to one Cpl Steele.

She, of course, remained alive, as did the other two next to her. He had only intended for her survival however, as the other two were useless to him. The one with the broken leg attempted to roll around to face the Spartan to get a shot off with his weapon, before receiving a shot to the head for his trouble. Steele, laying in the mud, had removed her helmet and watched in horror as her comrade's brains splattered next to her prone form. With her crushed ribcage and internal damage, she could only watch as the olive-green monster stepped behind the other man in her team, raise his submachine gun behind her comrade's unconscious head and pull the trigger. At this close of a range, the ODST helmets could only do so much, as her other man's head exploded in red mist and tissue. Steele looked, well she looked quite awful to G003, as a steady stream of dark blood seeped from her mouth and once blonde hair became matted with blotches of mud. Her face, caked with her own blood, could not the sheer agony she was experiencing, and the Spartan didn't really care. Once he had what he needed, she was dead anyways, no mattered what she would attempt to say to save her own. For that reason, he was shocked to hear her cough out, "What... why.. what have you done!?"

That was certainly surprising, as he simply defended himself from _her_ betrayal and an ambush. The Spartan simply approached her confidently, kicking aside her own weapon from her limp hand, breaking a few fingers in the process, evident from the crunch. His suppressed barrel inches from her forehead he growled, "Strange, you were the one who bet-"

Her icy blue eyes stared into his golden visor, "You murdered all of them, without so much as a second thought! You're a fucking monster!"

What? G003 relaxed his weapon and took a few steps back. Murder? No, all he did was defend himself, that could hardly be construed as murder. Why would she even be distraught? She should know the consequence of defeat was always death on the battlefield. No amount of persuasion or groveling would change that. "It was a trai-"

A single 5x23mm bullet cut her off, and the so-called Cpl Steele lifeless eyes rolled into her head and collapsed onto the jungle floor, crimson blood pooling beneath her. He had heard enough, she was distraught and wasn't coherent. Tools and instruments sometimes, every once in a while, could break on you. Humans were like that, he supposed, and stepped over her corpse and carried on.


End file.
